


Fragments

by lovesrainscent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrainscent/pseuds/lovesrainscent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written approximately 2004.  Response to the WIKTT Whiskey challenge at the time. The opening paragraph was the challenge itself. Per the requirements of the challenge I have left this paragraph essentially unchanged, although I did shorten it as this is a mere ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters below, they are the property of JK Rowling._

Severus stared moodily down at the deep amber glass of Old Ogden’s. He had stopped shaving. Truly, what did it matter? It wasn't as if there was anyone to see him. He hadn’t bothered leaving his rooms in more than a week. The house-elves had taken to leaving trays of food around. Occasionally he even ate them. Most of the time, however, was spent in somber contemplation of a cut-crystal glass of Firewhiskey.

Whiskey. He mulled the word over in his mind, half tempted to laugh at the irony of it all. Who could have known that the first thing a man freed from a lifetime of servitude to not only one but two masters, would seek would be a new mistress? Who indeed?

Mistress. The term suited the whiskey well. She demanded service and loyalty as had Albus and the Dark Lord before her. She was a harsh mistress but fair. And she always paid with the coin of blissful oblivion.

He reached for the glass, cool and solid to his touch. He traced the beveled edges of the crystal pattern with his forefinger before lifting it to his lips. It was all part of the dance he shared with her before she gave up her promise of sweet release and forgetfulness.

He tried to appreciate her the way a man should a woman - with all of his senses. He savored the gentle, laughing sound she made as he poured from the decanter into the glass. The sound hinted of gaiety and a light heart. It was a maidenly laugh, never raucous or unseemly.

The curve of the glass - to appreciate how it felt in his hand came next as he curled his fingers around it. How solid it felt, how permanent and yet he knew how fragile it was in reality. Apply enough pressure and ...

He didn't want to think about it. Not yet. Over the course of the last week he had gripped the glass to the point of almost-but-not-quite breaking it several times. It would be a simple thing, trivial actually to close his hand tighter and tighter until it broke. The house-elves would clear it away promptly, he knew that. And if a shard of glass should happen to injure him he could mend it immediately with a spell learned in childhood. The idea of shattering the glass was seductive - it gave him a sense of power, but at the same time it would be such a waste. To destroy a thing of such delicate beauty, a vessel nonetheless capable of holding such fire and power was hard to imagine. But it was an image that kept returning unbidden to his mind.

The sound and touch of his new found mistress he now savored in full. And of course, there were her more obvious pleasures that wizards had enjoyed for centuries - scent and taste. He raised the glass near his face to breathe deeply the rich, oak-laden fragrance. It was heady with promise, rich and full like a forest of ancient trees. The spiky aroma penetrated his nostrils promising clarity of senses that he knew was a lie. He would wake tomorrow with a head full of cobwebs and pain that was a fair exchange for one more night of oblivion.

The image of the shattered glass came to him again and he hastily took in a mouthful of the fiery liquid, holding it in his mouth briefly before swallowing hard and letting its fire flow past his throat and out into his veins. The shattered glass substituted for another image that was too painful to bear and he had best get past it quickly.

It was his sense of vision that betrayed him now. He could linger longingly over the sound, scent and taste of the whiskey. He could appreciate the weight and workmanship of the crystal, the feel of it in his hand. But he couldn't trust himself to look at it for long. The clear amber depths mocked him, reminding him of bright, brown eyes possessed of their own clarity and surety of purpose. When he stared at the glass all he could see was it shattered before him; shattered with the same minimal effort the Dark Lord had expended when he broke her in front him.

How he hated maudlin sentimentalism, particularly in himself. He tried to focus on simply the waste of such a talented young witch, full of promise. He tried but the whiskey mocked him; jealous bitch, she knew it was a lie.

Of course Hermione had been more than just a talented witch to him, but what? What had they been to one another? They'd had such a short time together and the whiskey's haze made it all a blur, leaving only the shattered image of her in sharp focus.

He drained the glass and quickly filled it again, preferring all his other senses to that of vision. As he swallowed he tried vainly to recall other memories of her - the first startling realization of shared attraction, stolen kisses, and initial, awkward intimacy. It was all running together now but it was taking longer for the final image to blur into the rest. He was becoming impatient. He closed his hand tighter, closer than ever to the crystal’s breaking point.

He raised the glass to his mouth one more time, taking another deep drink and enjoying the heat that filled him as he swallowed hard. He applied just a breath more pressure around the glass, wincing as it broke into pieces, one fragment catching in the heel of his hand as the rest fell in a tinkling shower to the ground.

He held his hand in front of his face and stared at the bit of crystal that had broken his skin. Blood welled up from the cut. Oddly, he didn't feel the cut itself, but the sting as the drops of whiskey that had been in the bottom of the glass seeped into it to mingle with his blood.

Fragments. His life was a path littered with fragments of broken glass and false starts.

A scrap of poetry, nonsense from some long ago required class, flitted into his memory.

_Pain penetrates_   
_Me drop_   
_by drop_

He called for a house-elf to bring him another glass.

A/N : The fragment of poetry is Sappho's and the translation belongs to Mary Barnard.


End file.
